A sixteen your old skater falls in love with a smart, rich, older French man, the flaw in that fairytale? He doesn’t even know the guys name, he just watches him every morning. This is SLASH (I suck at summaries, It's official)

A/N's: This is a little ditty I've had floating around for a
while, its just for fun, but I will try to update
every week or so. Also I'm dyslexic, so the spelling and probably the Grammar
in this are awful. I have run it through
a spell checker, but it can only do so much.

Feedback: It would make my day; I always appreciate people
taking the time to tell me what they think of my work, whether it's just
encouragement or Constructive criticism. Flames will be used to toast
marshmallows on though.

Warnings: Ladies, Gentlemen and South American Bullfrogs, this
is SLASH as in boys in love,
Homophobic people, please run far, far away now, you have been warned.

Chapter One: French

There he is.
There he always is.

He sits at the same table every day, even when it rains, he
sits watching as the river flows under the bridge, sipping his Almond Latté in his impeccably cut French suit.

They say the French are known for being romantic. I doubted that until I saw him, heard
him. He has a voice that could ensnare a
dragon, melodic and deep.

He turns to the waitress and orders another drink. I have no idea what he said to her, its all
in French, but I have watched him often enough to know that he will not leave
with out a second Latté. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear;
he has the most gorgeous hair, glossy and black as night that spills over his shoulders,
with a hint of chestnut brown.

I've placed him at maybe twenty five years old or there about. He doesn't seem young, he has the sort of
sadness in his eyes that makes you think he's walked the earth for a million
years and witnessed a million sins, but they are the only 'old' think about
him, and they are perfect.

His table is outside, facing the water with one of those
huge canvas umbrellas over them. It's a
small place where we live, a little English speaking town near the channel
tunnel on the French side. Almost every
one here speaks French, some do speak English, and a lot of the time you can
find some one that speaks both. I've
only ever heard him speak French, but then again I wouldn't want to hear him
speak English, he deserves to speak in liquid silk, nothing else is good
enough.

I'm probably one of the only people around here that can't
even stumble out a sentence in that beautiful language. I moved here about three months ago, and
honestly haven't had the time. My
friends speak English so it's not as if I really need to. Joel can translate anything for me when we
are out. The guy has a rich English
Grandmother who refused to talk to him in French because she didn't understand
a word, so he's pretty good at both.
He's a great friend, always there for me, smiling with me and laughing,
even if my jokes are crap.

It was about two months ago I found this place. I had had been feeling down, no real reason,
just kinda depressed so I'd headed out before class
to grab a coffee and think for a bit. I
found this place, it's nice, almost deserted at this time of the day and there
are seats outside in the sun.

He was sitting there as I walked in and grabbed my first caffeine
hit of the day. It was his eyes I
think. Those haunted almost black eyes
that were framed just so by his hair, he was staring off into space with the
saddest look I've ever seen a human being posses and I lost my heart to
him. How could I not?

I couldn't stop thinking about him all day. Just what would hurt someone so bad to make
them look like that? So I went back the
next day, and the next and the next.
Till here I am, two months later, gazing over the rim of my coffee cup
at a man I have never even said hello to.

That's how it goes.
Every morning he's here before me, he sits and watches the river flow
past, and I sit and watch him drinking his Latté before
elegantly dropping money onto the table and gliding off without a back
glance. The guy is loaded, anyone could
tell that from a thousand miles away, but there is so much more to his appeal
than that.

So here I am, in low riding baggy jeans and a Korn T-shirt, my skateboard propped up against my bag,
watching a guy who's a decade older than me in a Versace suit no doubt. The little skater kid that fell in love with a
guy he can't even say hello to. It's the
stuff freakin Fairy tales right?

The waitress returns with his drink, and for some god knows
reason an extra pen and a pad of paper.
He says thank you to her, now that phrase I do know and she waits for
him to write something down. I feel a
stab of jealousy, and pray to god he's not giving her his number. It's irrational, I know, I don't even know
his name, but in some weird way, I feel like he is mine. He belongs to me. I know his every gesture and expression. You get to know a person watching them every
day.

She gives him a warm smile as he folds the paper in two and
hands it back to her. I choke on my
coffee and curse quietly. She seems
happy. I suddenly hate her venomously,
she doesn't deserve him. But then again,
who am I kidding, like he would even spare a second glance at me.

I turn to study the half empty cup in my hands, suddenly
feeling the weight of stupidity rest in me.
What the hell did I think I was doing, it was some sort of ridiculous
game.

I doubt he had even heard of the Bands I listen to, or the
TV programs I watch, or the places I hang out in. He was way too classy for all of that, I try
to picture him in a mosh pit,
however the comical image doesn't help, just proves how different he really is
to what I wish I could pretend he was.

I get up to leave.
I'll be back tomorrow; what ever I think doesn't matter, I've become
addicted to him, totally hooked on my morning fix.

The waitress comes up to me and hands me the bill. I fish around for come coins and hand them to
her. She smiles at me and hands me a
small square of folded paper.

I spin round to look at him, only to find he's gone, his half
drunk cup still steaming. He's never
left his drink half finished before.

I tentatively open the paper and hold my breath. The writing is just how I'd imagined it, artistically
nest.

I
could almost cry. It's in French.

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